


And Yet It All Seems Limitless

by blastellanos



Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Cancer, Character Death, M/M, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/pseuds/blastellanos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When one thinks about their career ending, it is always in the rush of a game. A hit that blows a knee out, a concussion that knocks someone so stupid they can’t possibly play again, age wearing one down, other injuries that can end a career—torn muscles that don’t mend. Certain breaks in arms or legs that take so long to heal that players are relegated to third string, if they come back at all.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>It isn’t this. It is <b>never</b> this. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative 2013-14 Season.
> 
> Many thanks to [ionthesparrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow) for providing beta reading. 
> 
> Thanks to Aaron for being so kind as reading the story over in it's opening stages to encourage me to continue on the project! (: 
> 
> A lot of the knowledge in here has come from living in Detroit for most of my life. But also, so much love to NFL.com, ESPN.com, pro-football-reference.com, The Detroit Free Press Online, and Tim Twentyman for information about the Lions. Also, the editors of the Detroit Lions by season on wikipedia.
> 
> Everything within is a complete work of fiction.
> 
> Cover Art: [And Yet It All Seems Limitless](https://24.media.tumblr.com/f8cdbc573b98e03e9175a888a358a013/tumblr_mzp6l6B7IZ1tpvi17o1_500.png)

Calvin wakes up, too warm despite the cool spring breeze coming in through the window and the sheets and blankets kicked down to his feet. His t-shirt clings to his skin everywhere and his boxers are damp, feeling too tight around his legs. He must have kicked his pajama pants off sometime in the night. 

The digital display of his bedside clock reads just after three in the morning.  
  
Calvin went to bed at just before nine but he’s still exhausted. This isn’t a new thing and he’s sure it has nothing to do with the start of spring training. It hurts in a different way. It isn’t the knocked bones of being driven to the ground by the defense, or the good, burning ache of muscle when he opens it up on the field, running his hardest and jumping his highest. Calvin rolls out of the damp spot he’d been laying in, away from the clock, and closes his eyes again.  
  
He’s so fucking tired—but it’s so fucking hot. He grabs his pillow, tucks it under his head and curls into the fetal position. He aches. The spaces by his armpits and his stomach hurt, like a cramp, but deeper and one that refuses to let go. He groans and rolls out of bed. He needs to strip out of the damp clothing and put on something dry.  
  
Calvin rubs his eyes and then strips down, pulls on another pair of boxers and a tank top. He doesn’t want to stick to the leather of his couch and his bed is still damp. He grabs his cell phone off of the table to set the alarm to make it to OTAs in the morning. Then he heads out in to the living room to sleep on the couch instead.  
  
He turns on ESPN on the flat screen, then closes his eyes again. He listens to the sound of an old game playing while the other shows are off air and starts to drift off again.  
  
 _It’s just the flu_ , Calvin reassures himself enough with that to fall asleep.  
  
*              *              *  
  
July and training camp rolls around and things aren’t getting better.  
  
“This isn’t my place,” Dr. Anderson says while taping an ankle sprain; Calvin had twisted it during scrimmages when he’d tangled up with Bush on a misread play. “But you might want to go and see someone, a different professional. You’ve been really tired lately, and the Vitamin B shots we’ve been giving you haven’t seemed to help.”  
  
Calvin’s dark gaze slants down at the white medical tape on his ankle. He gives a sort of non-committal nod. It’s the same thing Stafford said to him last week. Stafford’s never been one to sugarcoat with him—so he came out and asked him if he was tired and when he said no, Stafford gave him a scrutinizing look and a nod. Slapped him on the shoulder and that wass the end of it.  
  
Bell mentioned it at the beginning of the month, sounding a little hesitant and unsure if he should be speaking up about it.  
  
Even Bush notices, clapping his shoulder at the end of a bad practice to ask him if he’s alright and then followed up wondering if he’d recently been dumped. All of this said with raised brows and obvious concern. Calvin appreciates the comments from his team, his _friends_.  
  
They care enough to notice—they didn’t think he was just getting old and slow.  
  
“Maybe,” Calvin replies with a frown. Anderson secures the tape and looks up at him, head tilting to the side. It’s the sort of considering look that puts Calvin’s teeth on edge. This sinking feeling that something was legitimately wrong rolls through him. It isn’t that Anderson’s concern smacks false to him, it’s just that if anyone could look at him and recognize something wasn’t right, it’d be a doctor. Anderson says he should _see someone_ and that means he _sees something_. It isn’t the concern of a friend; it’s the concern of someone who is reading his body professionally and seeing something off.  
  
He doesn’t like the concerned look. Calvin doesn’t like the tiredness he sees on his own face when he looks into the mirror. Maybe it is nothing. Maybe he _is_ just getting older and slower, a function of too many knocks in the helmet and drives in to the turf.  
  
“Thanks doc,” Calvin says, since he’s finished with the taping, he stands gingerly. He limps towards the practice field. This pain is familiar. He’s sprained more than just one joint over the course of his football career. It hurts in a recognizable way. Sharp twinge, constant, but combated with the taping and the ibuprofen he is ordered to take.  Coach Schwartz is running the defensive line through Oklahoma drills, and he wanders over to where Stafford is helping Moore with his passing technique.  
  
Calvin drops to the grass, sits with his legs folded, elbows propped up on his knees and just watches. Stafford is a decent teacher and Coach Downing is there to shore up where Stafford fails. Moore is not exactly poetry in motion; even as a back-up he’s unimpressive. But beneath the July sun, Calvin watches, shields his eyes and tries to ignore the ache as he does.  
  
Stafford catches him watching and smiles at him. Calvin grins back and Stafford’s smile widens a fraction and his blue eyes light up for a brief moment. But his attention snaps back to Moore as he has an awkward, not even college-level appropriate throw.  
  
Calvin likes watching Stafford.  
  
On the practice field or during a game.  
  
Not that he is always the most graceful of quarterbacks, but there’s something about the way he moves that had always caught his eyes. Not to the point of distraction but…  
  
Well, sometimes to the point of distraction.  
  
Calvin lets his skin bake in the too hot July sun. Watches as the redness stains over Stafford’s pale skin, burning his nose and his cheeks.  
  
For some reason, it seems important to notice these things. Calvin files it away in his mind, like some prized memory, or a flower pressed between the pages of a book.  
  
*              *              *  
  
They play their first regular season game on September 8 th, a Sunday, and everyone is excited as hell to get back into it. Calvin especially. Even the worry he’s feeling has diminished in the face of playing the game. Bell had wanted them to celebrate before their season opener in a week’s time. Bell was born in Benton Harbor and had gone to school at Wayne State University—suffice it to say that he knows Detroit well.  
  
Bell wanted them to check out Clutch Cargos, a club in a renovated church. Beforehand, they’d made their way to Larry’s Soul Food Dining not too far from the club. The restaurant isn’t filled to capacity, but it’s by no means empty either. Some conversations seemed to die down and there’s more than one turned head when they come in.  
  
Calvin’s no stranger to this.  He’s always been a little unassuming, but he knows fame is what it is. He tries not to get pulled in to the diva mentality a lot of other wide receivers, high producing ones, seem to. But he likes talking to fans, signing autographs, being someone that the whole place is proud of. He’s moved to Michigan, and while Georgia will always be his first love, he’s at home here.  
  
Bell, along with Calvin, and Stafford and their defensive front four, Bush and Fauria, crowd around a couple of tables and a booth, fielding autographs and questions while they eat.  
  
“I’m not used to this,” Fauria says. 

Calvin chuckles a little, nudging him in the ribs. “You’ll get there,” he assures Fauria.  
  
“Yep, comes with the job,” Bush chimes in with a sage nod.  
  
Stafford shakes his head with a smile on his face and slings an arm around Fauria’s shoulders. “Only if you do well, though. So don’t fuck it up.”  
  
Calvin sees Fauria’s mouth moving in response to Stafford’s words, but it’s drowned out by Fairley and Suh’s loud and boisterous laughter. 

Stafford responds to whatever Fauria said, their heads pressing close together as they talk. Bell joined in with the laughter, maybe overhearing something. It was pleasant--energy like an electric storm buzzing in the air, everyone high on the excitement of the upcoming season.  
  
Practice has been going well. They’d won three of their four pre-season games—by quite large margins too—and the whole thing has a general feeling of looking up this year—even if Calvin’s not entirely satisfied by where his own game is at. Stafford’s looking good though, not a lot of touchdown passes, but he’d made a lot of completions and not a lot of interceptions.  
  
He’s not sure if Stafford worries about stuff like that too, but he thinks he might. He knows for a fact that Stafford knows some of the other guys do. And since the subject was up anyways, Stafford gives them a pep talk. It’s such a Stafford thing to do.  
  
“You guys have been doing great,” Stafford says, once the laughter dies down, “You guys look _prize_ on the field, I’ve been watching the tapes of the pre-season games and we’re golden. We’re gonna do great this year. There’s no way we can do as badly as we did last year.”  
  
Calvin snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, and not anywhere near as bad as we did in 2008,” he adds. Stafford glances at him. That was before… well, everyone here right now. It had this effect of making Calvin feel old. Only Bush had been in the league longer. But he’d been playing for the Saints at the time. Still, Bush grimaces in response.  
  
“Well, after a season like that, you can only go up,” Stafford says, meets Calvin’s gaze, and smiles. Calvin nods his agreement.  
  
“And we’ve got the talent now,” Calvin responds with a wide smile. “We know how to get shit done. We’re going to have a great year. A _playoff_ year.” Calvin is sure of it. More sure of it than he’s been of anything in his life.  
  
“Exactly,” Stafford says and he looks at Calvin with a gleam in his eye. The sort of fierce hunger for victory that Calvin sees in him all the time.  
  
Calvin has always been sure of Stafford’s ability on the team. They’d gone to the playoffs once already with him in 2011. They hadn’t had great success yet, but you can’t build a team on one or two people. Calvin had seen Stafford on the practice field after the draft and he knew how good he was, could tell with the way he’d thrown.  
  
They hadn’t had all the tools before, but they’re closer now. He has high hopes for this season.  
  
Really high hopes.  
  
Which makes this strange feeling that Calvin has all the more worrying. He’s afraid he’s not going to contribute. Sometimes even getting out of bed in the morning hurts. In practice, he’s managed to keep up. But that’s playing against Lions second stringers and that’s nothing like playing against other team’s starting line-ups.  
  
And in the pre-season games, Calvin hadn’t been on top of his game with only three receptions and no touchdowns. People had noticed, of course, but everyone assured he’d be top notch by the time the regular season came around. Calvin isn’t so sure.  
  
He hopes, of course.  
  
But sometimes, he gets a feeling, like a premonition. A feeling deep in his bones, with everything that had happened. The symptoms and when they’d started, how long they’d been going on. Everyone noticing how tired he looked. Dr. Anderson’s concerned gaze and advice he should see someone.  
  
Calvin is quick to shake off the sudden sense of unease that had come over him, brought back to the conversation by the sound of Stafford’s laughter. Stafford catches his eye again and grins.  
  
“Let’s go,” Bell says once they’re done eating, “I can’t wait to show you guys this place.”  
  
Bell’s enthusiasm for it is infectious. Since the club is relatively close to the restaurant, they’d parked in a lot and walked over. On the way there, there’s more talk about the upcoming season.  
  
“You know how great we’re gonna be this year,” Fairley says with a wide grin, “We’re gonna get a ring. We’re gonna be the first group of Lions to go to the big game and we’re gonna crush it.”  
  
“You’re right man,” Fauria agrees, “We’re going to make franchise _history_.”  
  
Stafford walks next to Calvin and nudges him, grinning still.  
  
“Hell yeah,” Calvin agrees, “We made it to the playoffs once, baby!” Calvin grins and Stafford makes a whooping noise of agreement.  
  
When they get to the club, the music is loud enough to be heard through the door. The bouncer lets them through without a second thought. He stops Bush just outside to discuss his time playing for the New Orleans Saints.  
  
But it isn’t long before Bell joins them at the bar.  
  
A round of drinks later and the music is pumping; they’d all migrated to the dance floor. It’s strange—the church elements are still there. In the balcony up above and the stained glass windows, and the main part of the club is still shaped like a place of worship, minus the pews and religious imagery.  
  
There’s still a certain feeling there, not one of sacrament, but in the familiar way the rafters come together. The vaulted ceiling and the impression of the roof where the steeple is. Calvin is religious, he went to church every Sunday growing up. Sundays are usually taken up by football now and it’s been a long time since he’s gone; but there’s a moment of peace that comes with all the ways the place is still similar to a church.  
  
Calvin likes it. The lights are flashing, it’s so hot, and he’s sweating and writhing with a mass of other dancers as a fast tempo song plays. He’s pretty hemmed in with a girl in a tight dress and slick curves and curly hair in front of him and Stafford almost against his side.  
  
The woman in front of him presses herself up against his front, but she feels distant, out of focus. Stafford singing along with the song playing, loud and a little raspy and a little off-key, is distracting and pulls his attention. It’s good, amusing to hear him singing about giving someone a free lap dance.  
  
He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and goes on dancing, tries not to think about how hot it is. His undershirt clings to his skin. After just one song worth of dancing, he’s tired, but he doesn’t want to sit down just yet.  
  
He’s facing Stafford as the next song plays, getting jostled into him by Fairley dancing like a fool. Stafford’s forehead bumps into Calvin’s face; then Stafford steadies him from the stumble, one hand on his hip and the other on Calvin’s elbow. Stafford glances up at him, not that their height difference is that big, but there was a slight tilt to his face.  
  
“Careful, Megatron,” Stafford says, loud over the music, with an amused smile. Stafford pats at his hip before he lets go.  
  
And then his muscles tense all of a sudden, it’s as though he can feel them tightening, like being wound up until he couldn’t move. It starts in his fingers, they twist and his arms jerk.  
  
Fairley bumps him in to Stafford again, but he feels like he can’t see, can’t hear, can’t think any longer. His body jerks, twists--  
  
And then everything goes black. 


	2. 2

Calvin wakes up in an ambulance with lights and sirens and a mask over his face, with the noise of the paramedics taking his heart rate and his blood pressure. He’s suddenly aware of Stafford’s presence, hand’s calloused by years of football, light on Calvin’s forearm, looking concerned and pale. Calvin tries to reach out for him, but he can’t quite get his hand over to rest on top of Stafford’s.   
  
The paramedics call out numbers to one another, loud and confusing in Calvin’s disoriented state.   
  
Calvin feels dizzy and the ceiling of the ambulance shifts in and out of focus. He can’t speak around the oxygen mask, so he just breathes. Closes his eyes because the way his vision swims makes him feel sick.   
  
He loses consciousness again.  
  
*              *              *  
  
Calvin jerks awake to Stafford standing over him and a flurry of machines beeping around him. It’s disorienting and confusing, a barrage of light and sound—he’s chained to the bed with the oxygen up his nose and an IV in his arm. There’s already a few places where he’s bandaged up, where the must have taken blood or something.   
  
His vision is swimming still and the lights make his eyes hurt. Mostly he’s aware of how uncomfortable everything is. But there’s also Stafford’s calloused hand resting on his forearm.   
  
There’s a nurse bustling about. She’s writing something down on her pad.   
  
Taking his vitals, he realizes.   
  
“Open,” She says to him and when he does, she slides a thermometer underneath his tongue. She waits for it to beep. While she records that, Calvin struggles to sit up a little, though doesn’t make a lot of progress as Stafford’s hand goes to his shoulder and keeps him down.   
  
“What’s happening?” Calvin asks, shaking the dizzy feeling off as best he can.   
  
“You had a seizure,” Stafford says, mouth pressing in to a line, brow furrowed with concern. “They’re running some tests right now.”   
  
“We’re still waiting for some results,” The nurse explains, “But the doctor will be in shortly to discuss your options.” The nurse writes down one more thing and smiles at Calvin warmly. “You’ll be alright, hon, we have the best doctors here.” She leaves after that.   
  
Calvin sighs and stares at the ceiling.   
  
The hospital bed is uncomfortable, it’s too loud with all the machines. Calvin scrubs a hand over his chin and sighs again.  
  
“Hey,” Stafford starts, but the doctor comes in and interrupts whatever Stafford had been about to say.   
  
The doctor’s name tag says _Blake,_ and he’s square jawed and severe looking.  
  
“Hello Mister… Johnson,” The doctor greets him as he grabs his chart from the end of the bed. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”   
  
The doctor falls silent as he flips through the pages and Calvin feels a knot in his stomach as he watches the doctor’s expression slowly turn to a frown.    
  
“I think we need to do a CT scan,” The doctor says after reviewing his chart. Stafford’s eyes get a little wide and he stiffens in his chair. Calvin’s looking at Stafford, but his gaze snaps back to the doctor when he mentions the scan.   
  
Two things jump in to his mind, almost immediately—that the Lions are going to know about this hospital visit and that whatever that CT scan said would go on record, since his insurance is through the Lions. Calvin’s worried enough about whatever is wrong—he can feel it deep in his bones, the ache. If there’s something wrong and it’s confirmed and the Lions know, they aren’t going to let him play.   
  
He _needs_ to play.    
  
“What if I don’t want one?”   
  
The doctor frowns.   
  
“Well, that’s certainly your right, but I don’t think—“  
  
“I don’t want one,” Calvin says firmly. The doctor eyes him and Stafford stands up. The doctor looks as though he’s going to say something, mouth opening, but Stafford interrupts.   
  
“Are you crazy?” Stafford asks, shoulders going tight and cheeks going red.   
  
“It’s a painless procedure,” The doctor interjects, “It’ll take just a few hours and it will give us a really good handle on what might have caused your seizure.”   
  
“I don’t want one.” Calvin’s tone doesn’t change. “I’m leaving,” he adds. The doctor’s frown deepens.   
  
“Like hell you are.” Stafford is angry, it’s obvious in the line of his body. Calvin can see it, like the way he gets heated up after a bad call. He looks like a tomato, how red he gets, and if they were in a cartoon, there’d probably be steam coming out of his ears.   
  
“Mr. Johnson, I beg you to reconsider.” The doctor is flipping through the clipboard with his chart on it. Calvin knows he can’t stop him from leaving.   
  
“I can check myself out,” Calvin says, frowning at Stafford. Stafford’s so pissed, almost like Calvin had fumbled a game winning catch. It was that serious. He’s seen Stafford angry before, but never quite in this manner. There’s clear worry on his face through it all. It’s almost frightening the way he looks at Calvin in that moment.   
  
“No, you can’t.” Stafford says.  
  
“You’re not my boss, _Matt_ , so back the fuck off,” Calvin snaps. He doesn’t want this. He definitely doesn’t want to get it down here, where the Lions are going to have access to it. Whatever’s wrong with him, the scan would show it and then everyone would know.   
  
Calvin yanks his IV out and it fucking _hurts_ , but he doesn’t care. He gets out of bed and pushes past Stafford. Stafford grabs him by the elbow and suddenly it’s not just a little fight. Fury bubbles up in Calvin’s chest.   
  
“Cal, you can’t just leave.” Stafford’s pleading with him. It somehow makes it worse. He’s bleeding in the place where the IV was and Stafford’s grip on him is tight. He outweighs Stafford, has three inches of height on him, but this doesn’t mean that Stafford’s easy to push off.   
  
Stafford holds on to him like he grips the football, fingers digging in to skin until he sees Stafford’s knuckles are white, the tight flex of his arms obvious in short sleeves.   
  
“Let. Me. Go.” Calvin isn’t fucking around either, and he likes Stafford, but that isn’t going to stop him from leaving. Stafford’s still worried, breathing heavy and nostrils flared. Calvin needs to reassure him, so he breathes in and tries to calm himself down too. “I’m sure everything is fine. I’m tired, I’m dehydrated. I’m gonna sleep it off. And I’ll talk to my own doctor ‘cuz he probably already has a solution for this.”   
  
Stafford’s still frowning, but his grip loosens, finally his fingers uncurl. But it’s reluctant.

  
“At least let me give you a ride,” Stafford says.   
  
“I’ll take a cab.” Calvin doesn’t want to drive with Stafford all the way back to his house in Birmingham.  Stafford protests but Calvin’s already moving past him. Stafford holds the door for him, and it’s strange, the look on his face is—Calvin’s not sure how to explain it. Stafford’s gaze lowers and his eyes are on the ground, but it doesn’t take a genius to see the white knuckled grip he has on the door handle.   
  
“Cal, please,” Stafford pleads one last time. But Calvin ignores him, has to ignore him. Stafford follows him on his way to get a cab, and waits with him out front, but he’s silent. A few times, it looks like he wants to say something, but Stafford never speaks, so Calvin continues to ignore him.   
  
Until the cab pulls up. Then he taps Stafford on the shoulder.  
  
“I’ll be fine. Go home and sleep.” Calvin tells him. Stafford frowns at him and then his jaw sets, like he was gearing up for another fight.   
  
“But—“ Stafford begins to protest and Calvin slips into the cab, shutting the door on Stafford. He’s done talking about it, done arguing. Despite what he’s told Stafford, he contemplates not calling anyone. Contemplates just ignoring the problem instead of facing it. But the truth of the matter is, he wants to know. It’s better than not knowing.   
  
He needs someone that he can trust, so when he arrives home, he sends an e-mail to Hanson. Hanson’s not a Lion anymore, but he was trustworthy. Hanson was with the Lions forever and Calvin remembers him having some kind of thing he didn’t want the Lions to know about. Hanson knew exactly where coaches and owners and GMs stood when it came to their players and their injuries and sicknesses both on and off the field.   
  
He’d know someone.  
  
Hanson gets back to him quick, with a name, number, and standard fee and a brief— _is everything alright?_   
  
Calvin doesn’t need to worry anyone else tonight, so he dashes off a reply saying he’s fine. Nothing at all to worry about. He calls up the office to make an appointment. He has to do something. Has to figure _something_ out. This is the best way. He thinks about how angry Stafford was—no, it hadn’t been anger, it’d been _concern_. Almost knee-jerk panic as he tried to get Calvin to stay and figure out what was wrong.   
  
But they’ve got the whole season ahead of them and he knows that Stafford doesn’t need to be worrying about this. About any of it, really. Part of him wants to protect his friend, part of him wants to protect the winning spirit that Stafford’s bringing to the team. Stafford can’t know.   
  
Neither can anyone else.   
  
*              *              *  
  
The doctor calls him back the first thing in the morning. The ringing is actually what wakes him up. The doctor asks him to come in, so Calvin gets out of bed and gets ready to go. There’s a text on his phone from Stafford. He feels guilty about the night before, the way he’d treated Stafford, and he doesn’t want to read it. He isn’t sure if Stafford will apologize or press for details or—he just doesn’t know and in that moment, he doesn’t want to.   
  
When he gets to the office, Doctor Blondie gets right into it.   
  
“I got your files from the hospital, Calvin,” Dr. Blondie says, “I think the ER doctor was right and that you should have a CT scan.”   
  
It’s not the news he wants to hear, really. He suspected that was going to be the case. Calvin’s not so ignorant as to not realize something is wrong. He knows it’s not the kind of think you can sleep off. This was why he was here, so he just frowned and nodded.   
  
Dr. Blondie explains the procedure, the contrast dye they were going to inject, the time it’d take to work through his system before they could do the CT scan. He mentioned taking blood work and a few more, lower impact tests that they would do.   
  
After they put the drops in the fluorescent lights in the room make his eyes burn and he lies there waiting for the CT scan with his arm over his face to stave off some discomfort. It doesn’t help. The entire place is uncomfortable. The reasons he’s there, the tests they’re doing.   
  
After the scan, they send him home.   
  
  
*              *              *  
  
It takes four days for his doctor to get the test results. Stafford calls him a few times, and Calvin can tell he wants to ask how things had gone. Stafford doesn’t though. Instead they talk about football and Stafford’s parents coming up for their opening game and how they’re going to kick ass in the season opener.   
  
They never talk for long, really. Normally Calvin ends the conversations when small talk trickles to a slow and he feels like Stafford might bring up the hospital and the rests.   
  
When they’re on the field in practice, there’s no talk at all. Calvin has a few good days where things almost feel normal and the rest results take a back seat to preparing for the game.   
  
When the doctor calls, there’s something in his voice that put Calvin’s teeth on edge.   
  
Calvin knows almost immediately it’s not going to be good news. He figures this, because rather than tell him over the phone, Dr. Blondie asks him to come in to get the results. The whole drive there, Calvin feels anxious and fidgety and he almost doesn’t want to go. He thinks about not going.   
  
He has to know, though. He makes his way to Dr. Blondie’s office and gets in to see him immediately.  
  
“Its primary cerebral lymphoma,” Dr. Blondie gives him the diagnosis in the gentlest way possible. But that doesn’t stop the train wreck sounding crash in his brain. His heart thuds, blood pounding in his ears, and Calvin feels at once an adrenaline surge and a sort of dizzying feeling of weakness and helplessness.   
  
Calvin is floored. Devastated.  
  
Dr. Blondie continues to speak, heedless of Calvin’s reaction, “It’s not good news, Calvin.” His tone is patient and careful, like someone trying to not enrage a beast. “Even with treatment, you can only expect another four to six years. That’s if it’s effective and we’ll have to start it immediately. Radiation, chemotherapy, steroid regimen.”   
  
Calvin barely hears it.   
  
When he thinks about his career ending, it is always in the rush of a game. A hit that blows his knee out, a concussion that knocks him so stupid he can’t possibly play again, age wearing him down, other injuries that can end a career—torn muscles that don’t mend. Certain breaks in arms or legs that take so long to heal that he’s relegated to third string, if he comes back at all.  
  
It isn’t this. It is _never_ this.   
  
Calvin takes pamphlets and a referral card for a top-rated oncologist numbly.   
  
“You’re sure?” Calvin finally asks, finding his voice somewhere, but it cracks on the words. He knows he’s sure; he knows it which is why it’s so hard to ask.   
  
Dr. Blondie nods.  
  
“Dr. Henderson will take good care of you, Calvin.”   
  
Calvin nods, still feeling numb, and leaves the office with an appointment to see him the following week. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do.   
  
But maybe Henderson will have good news, a second opinion that Dr. Blondie didn’t read the results right and that there was nothing wrong with Calvin’s health.  
  
Hopefully.   
  
*              *              *  
  
Calvin doesn’t want to tell anyone yet, but their first game is in less than a week, and he feels he owes it to Coach Schwartz to give him a heads up. Calvin’s one of the stars of the Lions. They don’t call him Megatron for nothing, after all. The team needs him. They’re pretty short on talent at WR as it is and Calvin’s the best of the best. Their chances don’t hinge on him, but he’s an important part. He’s letting the team down by having to do this. Having to leave but—Calvin is too tired, too beaten down from lack of sleep and constant ache to play a game of football. It’s the hardest thing he’s had to do. He knows people are counting on him. Stafford and the rest of the boys and Coach Schwartz and Detroit.   
  
It fucking sucks.   
  
Schwartz’s office is covered in Lions paraphernalia. There’s a black and white, signed photo of Barry Sanders hanging right behind Schwartz’s chair. There’s also Calvin’s and Stafford’s covered from _Sports Illustrated_ framed on one of the walls. That’s what he stares at the longest.   
  
_Mega-Arm and Megatron_.   
  
Schwartz must have stepped away from his desk, so Calvin stands and considers the picture. It was taken more than a year ago and for some reason, he still recalls the exact way it felt with Stafford’s arm pressed against his. Would have been shoulder-to-shoulder if Stafford was taller, but it felt like them against the world in that moment. It’d just been a photo shoot, but Calvin remembers feeling that maybe Stafford would always have his back. They were a great duo. They’d been friends already, but Calvin thinks that’s the moment they became great friends.   
  
_Batman and Robin_ , Fauria jokes sometimes and Calvin sighs.   
  
It makes him think of the spring when Stafford had moved to Detroit and they’d meet up a few times. Sometimes, it’d be just to throw a football around and sometimes to discuss the playbook or just to get lunch and talk about things. Part of the reason they clicked so well on the field was because they got on so well off of it.   
  
The rush of memory is painful in light of what he has to say.   
  
So he reconsiders.   
  
Maybe it’s not that bad. He’s a football player—he’s stronger than most people. Tougher than other people. Calvin leaves the office. Schwartz passes him and Calvin hopes he doesn’t stop him. It’s not normal for Calvin to be here when there’s not a meeting; he doesn’t want to arouse suspicion.   
  
“Johnson? Did you need something?” Schwartz calls over his shoulder, so Calvin turns back towards him.   
  
“No, sir,” Calvin replies. Schwartz nods and glances down at his clipboard, flips through a page and Calvin thinks he’s going to be dismissed. He turns to leave, but Schwartz speaks to him again.  
  
“Hey, you ready for Sunday? You should get out on the field, I think Stafford’s out there now. Kid barely goes home this close to game time.” Schwartz grins and Calvin nods.                 
  
“Yeah, I’ll go now,” Calvin says. Schwartz disappears into his office.   
  
Calvin heads on to the field.   
  
Stafford’s alone, throwing the ball into the net, sweat beading on his skin in the midday heat. His hair is clinging to his forehead, cheeks red, and eyes squinting in concentration as he throws into the sun.   
  
“Hey, Stafford,” Calvin greets. Stafford shields his eyes. “Want to run through some passing drills?”   
  
Stafford hesitates and Calvin knows why. So, Calvin grins at him. “ _Matthew_. I’m fine,” Calvin says. Stressing his first name.

 

Stafford rolls his eyes and then drops his hand down. He gives Calvin a sort of sidelong, skeptical look, but shrugs and nods up towards the sky. “Sure. Gotta get used to this. Supposed to be clear, sunny skies on game day. They’ll have the dome open.”  
  
Calvin nods. “Can’t really see down the field in those sun visors.”  
  
“True, we should stay working with the sun in our eyes to prepare. You good to run down field?”   
  
“Yeah, I’m good.”   
  
“Let’s run some down the field, then slants, then maybe a few curl flats?” Stafford looks thoughtful and Calvin nods again.   
  
“You’re the boss,” He teases.   
  
But there’s something—a flicker of their fight from before—and it burns somewhere in Calvin’s chest. They should be good. They were always good, but Stafford doesn’t smile like he would have before.   
  
Stafford shrugs it off though, shakes his head and flings sweat off and then drops back in to passing position.  
  
This is easier when they’re not racing defenders or trying to throw before the pocket collapses—if it does—but Stafford tries to emulate it. He throws fast and he throws hard. Calvin adjusts to make catches, as on the fly, Stafford tries to simulate a bumped arm, too much pressure, not enough time.   
  
They complete more than they miss, Calvin catching them after twenty, thirty yards. It tires him out and he’s sweating more than normal. He aches still but ignores it as he jogs back towards Stafford and the line.   
  
“Looking good.” Stafford flashes a thumbs up as he speaks and then drops back. “Some slants now you think?”   
  
“Yeah—you want me down field or short ones to the sidelines?”   
  
Stafford’s thoughtful expression returns. “Some of each. Short ones first.”   
  
Calvin does worse this time. He’s tired and he’s not making it to where the ball winds up. Stafford makes the time out “T” with his hands and waves Calvin back in.   
  
“We can take a break if you need,” Stafford says. His hand goes to Calvin’s hip, pushing him towards the Gatorade tank.   
  
Calvin frowns at him. “I’m fine,” Calvin complains.  
  
“You run the forty in four point thirty-two and you think not making it on these short slants is fine?” Stafford asks. In that moment, Stafford isn’t talking as his friend, Stafford’s talking as a team captain. There’s a certain hard edge in those hazel eyes that makes Calvin draw up short.  
  
“I’m just tired.”   
  
“You had a seizure less than a week ago. You won’t tell me what’s going on. I knew I shouldn’t have done this.” Stafford tosses the ball down on the turf and crosses his arms over his chest.   
  
“I’m _fine_.” Calvin’s teeth are clenched now, irrational anger bubbling up in his chest. Stafford’s still got that scrutinizing look and Calvin wants to shake him by his shoulders until it goes away. He’ll be fine for Sunday. He is fine. His performance isn’t going to suffer and he’s not going to let anyone down.   
  
“Calvin, you’re not _fine_ , people don’t just have seizures without a reason.” Stafford’s anger fades and it’s replaced with concern. Somehow, that makes it worse. “Look, if there’s something going—“   
  
“Drop it, Stafford, there’s nothing going on. I’ll see you for practice tomorrow.” Calvin interrupts Stafford’s speech before it can start and heads off the field.   
  
He’s going to be fine on Sunday, today was just a bad day. He ignores Stafford calling after him and heads home.   



	3. 3

The locker room atmosphere is electric. It's T minus thirty minutes until kick off of the season opener and everyone is geared up, everyone is ready. Fauria's excitedly talking about what he'll do if he gets red zone looks and the O-Line is game planning with the offensive coordinator. It's familiar and it settles over Calvin like a blanket of reassurance.  
  
This is in spite of the deep ache, the way his soul whines, and how bad it hurts. He's... not sure why. Maybe it's the drugs or the steroids or something that's wrong. And he looks around the locker room and he wonders just what he's going to say. What is he going to do.  
  
He doesn't even know where to start; he'd thought about telling Schwartz, but he hadn't. He'd gone to Matt instead, but even telling him seem insurmountable. They were a team; he'd thought about it in part since his diagnosis.  
  
But he couldn't even tell his own _family_ much less the team. (It was a family, a different kind of family, but still just as close knit.) But the thought of saying it out loud is terrifying. It's not less real if he doesn't say... but there's the fact that he still doesn't want to.

  
Matthew's hand is suddenly on him, on his hip, where he can feel it, without the interference of pads. Patting a little, reassuring, maybe just feeling that Calvin is solid and here and with him. He should reassure him that there is no worry.  
  
“All good?” Matt asks. Calvin nods a little.  
  
“All good.” He promises.  
  
A little niggling voice in the back of his mind tells him to not write checks his body can't cash. But he watches the way Matt's face lights up. That he believes him, believes the lie. And that-- it's good. He needs Matt to believe that.  
  
They can't have him distracted; he's the one leading the team on the field.  
  
* * *  
  
The first half is abysmal. He can't get open. He's jammed at the line, beat down the field, tackled on check downs and generally blown up on every play.

  
“They've got our number,” The OC says and he flips through his playbook and tries to find something new for them to do.  
  
Calvin's downing gatorade and trying not to pant for breath.  
  
“You look like shit out there,” Suh says to Calvin on the sidelines, “We're doing all we can but y'all need to start putting up some fucking numbers.”  
  
“I know.” Calvin's nose wrinkles as he responds. A year ago today he would have-- he isn't sure. He wouldn't have fought Suh, but maybe he would have been more quick to disagree. And Calvin takes it as him insulting the entire offense.  
  
But Calvin knows it's his fault. He can feel himself failing on the field and failing his team and Matt and everyone. He wants to disagree-- but he can't.

  
Matt looks like he wants to say something. But he doesn't.  
  
Calvin grins at Suh. Has to do-- say something.  
  
“We got you, baby, don't worry,” The words roll off Calvin's tongue like ease, but Suh should be worried. Calvin is already so tired, so worn. He knows what it is, he knows it's that he's losing his strength, his speed; the illness sapping it like a vampire. It's obvious to him. Suh's frown is like a thundercloud.  
  
Maybe it's obvious to Suh, too. Maybe that's why he doesn't seem reassured. Suh was great at hunting down a weakness in an offensive line-- there's nothing to say that he wouldn't spot Calvin's weakness just as easy. He feels like there's a sign on his forehead and Suh has him and it all figured out.

  
They're down at the half. Calvin has to make a decision.  
  
* * *  
  
It's not exactly unknown, what has to be done. Calvin realizes it as he's sitting with his head between his knees and listening to Schwartz bitch them out as politely as he can. (He's not a _tough_ coach, not really, but his words are edged.)

  
Calvin sits and thinks and knows that he can't do it. It's half time, he already feels like his stamina is gone. He can't do it for another month. Another week even. With a heavy, trepidatious heart he realizes that this is his final game.

  
He can't do this another Sunday. The next half hour of gameplay is going to be hard enough.  
  
Calvin has to make it count.

  
* * *  
  
First snap of the half and they go off. Calvin kicks it in to a higher gear. He's going to let Detroit down, retiring.  
  
He isn't going to let them down in their season opener.  
  
Calvin goes harder. He's on fire. He jukes, spin move, cuts past defenders and gets open for Matt. Down the field, across the middle, double coverage it doesn't matter. Matt throws the ball and Calvin always thinks of it-- let go and let god-- because he looks back and it's coming right for him.  
  
So he gets his hands up and hooks it in.  
  
Solid football moves.  
  
He scores a touchdown. He blocks for Fauria and Pettigrew. Gets the holes open for Bell and Bush. They wind up with a victory and at the end, it isn't even a slim one, they trounce the Vikings with a come back.  
  
Calvin feels so high and the adrenaline from the win blasts out all of the pain and for the moment, he feels like he's on top of the world.  
  
“You shoulda played like that the whole time,” Suh complains at him in the locker room after and Calvin laughs.  
  
“Told you I had you, baby.” Suh laughs too.  
  
“You did great,” Matt says and he looks happier now. Maybe it's the win, feverbright eyes and sweat clinging on his upper lip, like maybe he's had the best day of his life. And Calvin thinks-- no, _knows_ , that Matt is equating too much.  
  
“We need to talk,” Calvin says. After they're showered, getting ready to go home.  
  
“Now?” Matt asks. They're both tired, Calvin possibly more so. So he shakes his head a little.  
  
“No, tomorrow,” Calvin says. “I'll take you to breakfast.” Calvin promises and Matt grins.  
  
“Deal.” Matt says and they part ways.  
  
Oh, but Calvin's really not sure he wants to deal with this.


	4. 4

The next morning, they wind up at The Original Pancake House, close to Calvin's home and find a table in the back. Kind of out of the way, but really, no public place is without the pitfalls of interruptions. 

But after the initial excitement dies down, Calvin and Matt are left in relative peace. Matt gets eggs and pancakes and Calvin get's french toast; but he's not really hungry and he cuts it up, lets it soak up syrup and more pushes food around his plate than actually eats. 

He thought of doing this at home, but then he'd be sitting there, and Matt wouldn't ever leave. Not after he told him. And he doesn't want the fight, the struggle; they drive in separate, leave separate, and if Calvin has to go in a hurry, at least Matt couldn't stay. 

It'd be embarrassing to have to lock himself in his bathroom until Matt left if he decided he wanted to be stubborn. 

Matt chats about the game to make conversation and Calvin's replies are stilted at best. He's trapped in his own mind, mostly, trying to figure on a good way to broach the subject. And it's... difficult to say the very least. 

He goes over how to best approach it. Matt had known something was up but it's likely Calvin's second half performance eased Matt's mind on how he was healthwise. It's difficult, really, to look at him and say what is actually going on. 

What he'll have to do. 

What he'll have to give up. 

Calvin wants to sob and maybe if (no, when, he's not stupid) he dies he'll ask God what he did to deserve this. Everything he ever wanted snatched away before he could really fully experience it. He had good feelings about the direction. 

The Lions are super bowl bound and they'll crack it and Calvin always imagined that he'd be there when it happened. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Matt asks finally. 

Calvin can't pussy out then. 

He sighs out and pushes his plate away. 

“Okay, well,” Calvin says, “I'm announcing my retirement.” 

Matt's look would be funny, if this was some joke he was trying to play. He always looks so young with his round face, even with the permanent stubble, his face is youthful and hard to always take serious. His lips part in surprise and hazel eyes go wide. 

“Wait,” Calvin says, because knows there's objection forthcoming. “I don't want to. I have to.” Calvin says. 

“No you don't,” Matt says quickly, “Come on your Megatron and we need you, you can't just--” 

“Matthew!” Calvin's voice is sharp and pitched and it's already bad enough he has to say it; he can't just let Matt make him feel worse about it. He knew the team needed him. That Detroit did. It made him feel like more of a failure and that was--

Well, something for another day. 

He reaches out and touches Matt's hand on the table, tries to reassure and calm and it's not going to fucking work. 

“I can't play anymore, Matt,” Calvin's voice is breaking. It drops to be barely audible over the noise of the restaurant. “I have cancer.” 

Saying it makes it real. 

“And if I don't start treatment immediately, I might not be able to shake it.” 

He doesn't want to look at Matt, but he does anyway. 

Calvin's never going to forget the look on his face. The way his ruddy skin goes pale as a ghost, even his lips losing color. Or how wide his eyes get and how wet, like he's going to start sobbing any moment. He sees the tremble in his shoulders, his hands shaking. 

And Matt's mouth moves but no sound comes out. Calvin moves his hand away from Matt's. 

“I wanted you to hear it from me, but I have to set it up, the rest, with Jim and the rest of the team and the media.” 

“But,” Matt's voice sounds so small. 

“I'm sorry.” Calvin says and feels like he's going to choke on the words. 

He leaves Matt at the restaurant. He's too in shock to say anything much anyways. 

* * * 

It's Wednesday when there's a knock at his door. Calvin knew he should be calling people, setting things up, but admitting it to Matt had made it feel real. And all he'd managed to do was call up Dr. Blondie and give him the go ahead to set up the treatment. 

Then the fog of depression settles in and he goes back to bed and doesn't wake up until mid day on Tuesday, where there's notifications on his phone-- missed calls and texts, all of them from Matt. Voicemails saying to call him. 

Texts saying the same thing. 

Calvin goes back to sleep on the couch listening to ESPN recap the games on Sunday. He hears the roar of the crowd as “Stafford flings it down field to Calvin Johnson-- oh no he did not TOUCHDOWN”, and it makes it feel worse. 

He buries his face in the couch. 

And when he's struggling to make himself something to eat on Wednesday, exhausted and tired and feeling every year of twenty-nine, the knock rouses him from his inner thoughts. He hasn't showered or shaved and he's still in the clothes he wore to the restaurant. 

It's Matt. 

He lets him in. 

“I'm not letting you do this alone,” Matt says. Calvin frowns. 

“You've got to focus on the team.” Calvin counters. 

“I can do both,” He says firmly. “And I'm not leaving you here to deal with this by yourself. Please, let me help you.” 

Calvin doesn't want to, wants to tell Matt he shouldn't get distracted. But he doesn't want to go through this alone. He tells him the first chemo date, it's Monday and Matt nods. 

“I'll fly back from Arizona after. Will you be at the game?” 

Calvin shakes his head no and Matt nods. 

“I understand. Call me if you need anything?” Matt urges. 

“Okay.” Calvin's voice is quiet and defeated. And he's surprised when Matt embraces him. 

“It's okay, Megatron, we got this. Like we got everything else.” It feels nice, but Matt lets go and has to leave. And Calvin will deal with that.


End file.
